In the Pursuit of
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: This story takes place during the season two episode, Keep Your Friends Closer. d'Artagnan searches for independence; Constance, Bonacieux, and d'Artagnan search to accept their fate; Aramis must keep revelations concealed; Treville finds that his loyalty runs deep for Porthos ; and the musketeer's search for solidarity brings them closer together.
1. Chapter 1

In the Pursuit of

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: This chapter takes place during the season 2 episode, Keep Your Friends Closer. Milady and Richelieu are no longer a threat; and Rochefort has been introduced. d'Artagnan feels stifled by Athos' overprotectiveness and searches for a way to regain his independence.

* * *

Chapter 1: The Search for Independence

Events spiraled out of control at a rapid pace; a hanging interrupted; a contact revealed and then fighting ensued – all it seemed in the blink of an eye.

Suddenly, there was Rochefort atop **his** mount, holding out **his** weapon – smoke curling from the muzzle – now turning and riding away toward the woods; after shooting an innocent man in the heart, as if it meant nothing.

At first Athos had it in mind to have d'Artagnan stay with these men and women; assist them with gathering the injured; their fallen leader; and then help them back to the village – whereby he, Aramis and Porthos would pursue Rochefort.

But things were moving too fast. d'Artagnan was moving too fast; his opportunity to give orders slipping away.

In that moment d'Artagnan had already leapt upon his horse – sat astride him – and was ready to ride after the fugitive. Aramis and Porthos had not yet reached their mounts; as they skittered away among the melee. Athos knew he had to restrain d'Artagnan immediately, if he were to stop him from pursuing alone.

As his own horse had just been absconded, he stood among the chaos and watched the events unfold around him, in what seemed like slow motion; a man down, villagers screaming – the shock of unexpected death etched on their faces; d'Artagnan leaning over the neck of his horse.

And just as d'Artagnan put his heels to flank – everything snapped back into real time. Athos tore his gaze from the fallen leader and the stricken villagers and acted quickly.

He ran swiftly toward d'Artagnan and his mount; reached up for the reins and held fast – causing the horse to spin in circles; kicking up clumps of grass and mud; and d'Artagnan straining with concentration to keep the horse on its feet.

Athos held on tight – his heels digging into the soft earth – determined to keep rider and horse contained ; ignoring the horses' reaction of pinned back ears; splayed teeth and stomping hooves.

d'Artagnan squinted his eyes and with effort reined the horse in – deftly keeping his seat; and preventing Athos from being kicked at the same time – the effort of it – worked at every muscle he had.

"What are you doing?" he forced out through gritted teeth; his legs burning from holding his horse in check.

Athos pet the mount's neck, shushing, and stroking – not letting go - until he began to settle down and pranced in place.

Athos grabbed for d'Artagnan's leg then and squeezed hard; to help settle him down also. He felt under his hand tension and trembling, and knew the effort it must have taken to keep the horse from bolting.

When he looked up into d'Artagnan's face, he knew what he would see; and there it was – indignation. He stared back at him hard and with authority said, "We go together."

He reached up his hand and commanded, "Help me up."

d'Artagnan was incredulous; but had no words in this moment to describe just how angry he was; so he just reached down and with little effort, helped Athos to swing up to sit at his back. Before he could nudge his horse forward to take pursuit – he heard Athos call in his ear, "We wait for the others."

Impatience curdled in d'Artagnan's stomach – but he held still and reined in his horse to do the same; leaning over his neck to whisper for him to stay. He could feel Athos hand on his back – as if encouraging him to stay put as well.

Once Aramis and Porthos gathered their horses; and mounted up – they were on their way – following in the direction Rochefort had been headed.

When they hit the tree line that led into the woods – Porthos held up his hand and called everyone to a halt. He dismounted and walked some distance – studying the ground intently – with the others following behind on horseback.

After a while, he knelt down and pointed to a spot on the ground, "He's entered here", he shouted out – standing then and gesturing over a thin trail leading into the woods.

"How do you know?" d'Artagnan countered; impressed with Pothos' skill and confidence.

"Athos has placed a mark of two lines on the shoe – this is him."

Porthos mounted up and joined his brothers in a circle. "I say we continue in down a little further up – walk in slow – swing in and meet him on the path. He won't expect us to come from the other direction."

Aramis nodded with agreement, "He won't be able to ride through here very fast – we should be able to catch up."

Athos nodded his assent, and they entered the woods to find Rochefort.

* * *

As they walked at a steady pace – keeping an ear out for their quarry - d'Artagnan for the hundredth time over the past several months, wondered on Athos' attitude toward him.

Ever since he had spared Milady; and sent her away – Athos had become over protective to the point of oppressive. He could not fathom it- the weight of it threatened to crush him.

With Athos seated at his back, the trail opening up before them and the nature of the woods echoing from tree to tree; d'Artagnan pondered on how their relationship had shifted from musketeer to musketeer on equal footing – back to student and teacher. He thought back over recent events and tried to find a clue as to what might have changed.

On a mission some months ago, that entailed delivering a missive – Athos had refused to let him out of his sight – directed his every move – and insisted on knowing his whereabouts at every turn. The expectation seemed unrealistic and unwarranted to him, and left him feeling caged. He questioned Athos then – "How was he to function – if he had no free will?" He got no proper answer, except to hear that soldiers followed orders.

The mission after that – he was not asked to accompany them. The assignment had been to gather intelligence among local village residents near the outskirts of Spain; who were plotting to bring their discontent to Paris in the form of an assassination attempt on the King.

He had confronted Athos then – but got no real reason for his exclusion – only to say he was not needed. d'Artagnan had seethed – gone to Treville – who could not or would not shed any further light on why he had been left out.

And just recently – they had been on assignment to find and bring in a group of bandits who had been terrorizing the countryside on the outskirts of Paris – stealing tax collection from outlying estates and robbing taverns along the way.

When they had found the bandits – all hell had broken loose; musket fire had erupted; they had been outnumbered and trapped – ambushed- and defenseless with only a few outcropping of trees for cover. Athos had not left his side – stood with him, and then without warning, pushed him to the ground when he had run out of balls for his musket.

With the wind knocked out of him; and things moving so swiftly; before he understood what was happening – Athos had placed his knee in the small of his back; holding him down – pinning him to the earth.

He would not let him up. d'Artagnan fought to stand – but did not know Athos had such strength. He just continued to fire and reloaded over top of him; with his knee pressed firmly in his back, until the battle had ceased; and a rescue regiment of musketeers had come in time to assist.

He remembered standing before Athos after the incident; scrambling to his feet – death and dust all around – Aramis and Porthos watching them both with unease – screaming; yelling and demanding from his friend why he would risk his life to stand over him – when he could have let him stand at his side – unsheathe his sword and engage by moving to attack.

Aramis and Porthos had to then restrain him and pull him away – as his temper rushed out like lava – and the fear at Athos' actions overwhelmed him.

He remembered Athos never said a word; only reached for his tunic – pulled him from the restraining arms of his friends and brought him close – pushing his hair aside; and wiping away blood plastered to the side of his face, from a graze to his scalp – he had not even felt.

All argument had left him then. What could he say in the face of such tenderness?

He loved the man as well; but could not abide this suffocation much longer.

* * *

So today, he had been surprised that he was even here for this assignment. He supposed Athos thought it simple enough – benign; that nothing could possibly happen – when all this assignment entailed was to meet a contact and escort him back to Paris.

But it had turned into something different. Now they found themselves tracking down Richelieu's spy – who claimed he had vital information for the King's ear only.

The day had started out well enough – even good natured. The weather was cool; the sun shining and a slight breeze brushed by, lifting their hair, and their spirits. It had been good to banter and talk with his friends without feeling the strain of the past few months between he and Athos filter into the conversation. But it was happening all over again – and the pressure of Athos' worry over him was like a heavy blanket.

So, he spoke up as they rode along the trail – sure to keep his voice low, "I could have caught up with him by now, if you had let me go", he pointed out with certainty.

Athos sat stiffly at his back and countered briskly, "We stay together", his tone indicating to d'Artagnan to say no more on the subject. So he sighed and let it go for now – determined to find another time to confront Athos – before he exploded.

When they met Rochefort on the path, as Porthos had predicted – forced his surrender; tied his hands and made him to walk back out of the woods between them - d'Artagnan's thoughts wandered to other concerns.

He thought of the poor man who today had lost his life; by way of a senseless act from the man they now would escort back, to have audience with the King.

After some time, d'Artagnan considered how he could assert some independence; be of assistance, and took a chance. He moved his horse forward to walk next to Athos – who seemed determined not to speak, after having rounded on Rochefort and felling him with one punch; his short lived humor gone – now replaced with a vigilance to get back to Paris as soon as possible.

"I wish to ride to the village Athos, to extend the help of the musketeers with burial expenses and explanation to his family as to what happened."

Athos thought on this and looked fondly at his friend; and marveled, as he had on many occasions, what a good man d'Artagnan was; how he never hesitated to extend himself to help others in need; and how he took the notion of honor as seriously as he did. Truly, he would be the best of them.

This then, only made him more resolved to watch over him closely; and keep him out of harm's way for as long as he could. His own brother had been taken from him prematurely and Anne had almost completed her revenge against him with d'Artagnan as her centerpiece. He would remain cautious where d'Artagnan was concerned; but could not deny this request.

So he nodded his assent, but before d'Artagnan could leave his side, added, "Aramis will go with you; and we will meet you on the road in two hours. We ride into Paris together."

d'Artagnan frowned and opened his mouth to protest – surely he could do this alone and meet them back in Paris in due time – but Aramis pushed forward and nudged his horse close – giving him a glance of warning. So, d'Artagnan pursed his lips and held his tongue – holding his argument in check.

Just as they were about to surge forward; and head to the village – Athos repeated, "Two hours."

Aramis studied his friend closely and saw anxiety – looked to d'Artagnan and saw frustration and answered, "Yes, Athos – he's with me. We'll see you soon" and they galloped away, leaving their two companions to continue on the road to Paris with Rochefort in tow.

* * *

Two hours later, as d'Artagnan and Aramis left the small village behind – leaving in their wake the grief of a wife; now widowed, with two small red haired boys - d'Artagnan could not help but feel weighted down. Her husband – the magistrate had left to administer the law and had come back dead. She had been inconsolable. The tavern owner's family – equally distraught and beside themselves with anguish.

"Rochefort has left behind two dead here", he said solemnly – glad now that Athos had insisted Aramis accompany him here. His faith and words of solace had gone a long way in tempering the anger in the village; and helping the families to ready for burial.

It made him think on what kind of man Rochefort was; what more could he be capable of; did the musketeers dare trust him. He had left behind here such pain.

"I could never get used to being in the presence of such sorrow", he confided in Aramis as they rode side by side – remembering the wrenching heartbreak of two widows; and the disbelief of the whole community.

"God will not abandon these people d'Artagnan. He will not leave them orphans, but will come to them in their storm and bring them comfort; and perhaps joy again, instead of sorrow. It will take time; but they will heal, by God's grace."

"And Rochefort?" he asked.

"Will receive his judgement in turn – mark my words."

d'Artagnan fell silent, and as they rode along quietly – his mind fell again on Athos' curious disposition toward him and he could feel his hackles rising as they made their way back to the road to meet the others.

Aramis could feel the change and inquired, "What else is it that has got you so unsettled?"

d'Artagnan looked to his friend with open disbelief, "Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

Aramis thought to himself – yes, he had noticed. Athos' protectiveness toward d'Artagnan seemed to have reached new heights; and he could see it was wearing the young man down – and that soon this would become a rift - perhaps one Athos could not see.

d'Artagnan took Aramis' silence as his opportunity to vent, "What is it that has changed? I thought he had finally begun to trust me; see me as an equal! Am I not a musketeer as you and Porthos? Am I not his brother also?"

Aramis raised an eyebrow – and smiled inwardly – more than brother, he thought – but aloud answered, "I believe he is afraid d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan sat straighter in his saddle; and threw an outraged look in his direction, "Athos is afraid of nothing. What is there to be afraid of?"

Aramis raised his hands in deference, "Afraid something may happen to you while in his charge. You are a musketeer, yes – with more still to learn. He has lost much – and I think he wishes he could have done more by his own brother."

d'Artagnan questioned, "You mean Thomas."

Aramis nodded and frowned with consternation, "Give him time d'Artagnan – I think with time and your understanding, you can weather this."

d'Artagnan bowed his head and nodded, "I am a musketeer Aramis and must be allowed to be one; but I hear you and will try to do as you say."

And so they rode along and eventually met up with Athos and Porthos, waiting by the road with Rochefort complaining of having to walk, and that if the Cardinal were still alive, there would be consequences for his poor treatment.

Athos ignored his incessant chatter; his whining voice that grated on his nerves; mounted his horse and moved to meet his fellow musketeers. Before a greeting could be made, Athos sounded, with a tinge of worry in his voice, "You are late", and rode past them to continue with the journey.

d'Artagnan scowled – Aramis sighed – Porthos looked perplexed and Rochefort only complained the more; but saw in these four what he hated most – musketeer loyalty – and vowed to destroy it.

Aramis lowered his gaze and shook his head; any temperance he had encouraged from d'Artagnan was now lost; as they rode now in silence – eager to make it home.

* * *

d'Artagnan rode ahead into the garrison yard aggravated beyond his limits of tolerance.

He rode his horse straight to the stables, bypassing Jaques' outstretched hands. When he slid from his horse- he looked out from the wide open frame and watched as the others walked at a slow pace, pulling the Comte de Rochefort along with them.

Some part of him knew he was being unprofessional; perhaps childish even – but he couldn't help it. He had thought he could follow Aramis' advice, and give time and patience – but Athos had just blown that out of the water.

He put his hands on his hips and forced himself to count to ten – close his eyes – breathe deeply and then count again.

At that moment Jaques entered the stables with the three horses and moved to take his.

"I'll take him", he told the surprised youth, who willingly let him keep the reins and began to pull the other horses to their stalls to ready them for grooming.

d'Artagnan moved to walk his horse to his stall when he heard Athos clear his throat behind him. He stopped and turned toward his mentor – his shoulders taunt with stiffness.

Athos noticed his carriage, but chose to disregard the message it sent, "We go to bring Rochefot to the Captain", he informed.

d'Artagnan let out a breath, and looked to the ground; lest Athos see the fire in his eyes, "You go ahead. I'm going to give Jaques a hand here. I'll join you shortly."

Athos stood for a moment, wanting to press the issue – but decided against it. He knew d'Artagnan was angry with him and could feel the wave of frustration cascading toward him – but he couldn't help it. He had chosen a path with d'Artagnan and was finding it hard to change course. And at this moment did not feel the need to explain his actions – he was the Lieutenant.

So, he nodded his assent, "Don't be too long", and headed out of the stables.

d'Artagnan stood and watched Athos leave out and join the others. After a moment he turned and addressed his horse; whose reins he held tight, and repeated crossly – "Do not be too long d'Artagnan" – and pulled him into the stall; lifting the saddle from his back – setting it aside.

"Do not go too far d'Artagnan" – he grabbed for the cloth to wipe him down; swiping vigorously at the sweat and dirt – then lifting each hoof to check for stones.

He then grabbed for the brush, "Stay close d'Artagnan" – and stroked the brush up and down his flank forcefully – leaving behind bright, glossy hair.

When he finished, he reached for his trusted friend's ears and rubbed behind them, just the way he liked – leaned in and whispered in his ear – "When will he let me go?" His mount nodded and pressed his nose into his chest, causing d'Artagnan to laugh and therefore, lifted his spirits.

When he finally made his way to join the others in Treville's office – he leaned against the far wall and caught the end of the conversation.

General de Foix was being held captive in the same Spanish prison as was Rochefort. Rescue was now the objective. As the sole architect of France's military strategy against Spain – the priority must be to retrieve him.

Rochefort was to speak with the King.

* * *

As plans were made – orders given – the outline of the castle prison scrutinized - d'Artagnan's thoughts fell on how he could once again prove his worth; find a way to show his friend that he was a musketeer capable of carrying out his duty; of being part of the team and contributing in some way.

On the road to the prison, dressed out of uniform as a disguise, d'Artagnan went over and over the lay out of the prison in his mind; having memorized the ins and outs; and taking heed to the directive that although rescue was the mission – General de Foix was not to live to pass on the secrets of France's military strategy.

His companions and Rochefort, rode along silently – with little conversation – all thinking of what lay ahead, and the great risks they were taking.

That night, as they sat around the fire listening to Rochefot talk about what torture the Spanish had visited upon him – showing his burnt flesh and speaking of how pain eats at the soul - d'Artagnan was struck by how vacant the man seemed and vowed he would not become like this – a man devoid of feeling and emotion – who was able to take life so callously without warning, as he had at the village.

His mind then fell on those two fatherless children; and considered the danger in trusting this man with the affairs of France.

When Rochefot left their company from around the blaze – Aramis followed him with his eyes – "He has been through much; suffered greatly, and it has twisted him in some way."

Porthos looked across at him and spoke with disdain in his voice, "I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. Any man who questions my courage and loyalty is not to be depended on."

d'Artagnan nodded, "I agree. There is something about the way he talks that puts me on edge. I don't get a good feeling about him."

Athos looked to his brothers, "Then all the more reason tomorrow to stay close."

d'Artagnan stared hard at his friend across the flames, and sighed deeply – letting his discontent flow out of him, so it would not fester within.

Aramis and Porthos looked to each other knowingly, and discreetly lay down, and turned their backs to the warmth; effectively sending the message that the two should talk. Aramis pulled his blanket around his shoulders, and spoke evenly, "That is our cue to say goodnight."

d'Artagnan picked up a wayward stick outside the flames; pushed on the burning limbs and watched as the embers floated above the kindling and then settled back down into the heat. He thought on how he could take advantage of this moment and how he should word things carefully. But when he looked across at his brother, he decided to just say what he felt with no preamble.

"Ever since you sent Milady away, you have held me too close."

Athos gazed into the flames and resolved to hear what d'Artagnan had to say. It was not unknown to him the resentment he felt over his need to see no harm come to him.

d'Artagnan continued, "Am I not a musketeer with the same commitment to duty as everyone else?"

Athos chose not to comment. d'Artagnan was a fine musketeer – and when he looked across the flames and caught his eye; conveyed as much.

d'Artagnan let loose his breath; and smiled, "Then if that is what you think; that I am a good musketeer – worthy of the pauldron, then you must let me go Athos – give me room to show my worth."

He leaned forward then, an earnest countenance to his face, "Nothing will happen to me. I promise."

Athos spoke then softly, as if speaking to himself, "So, you promise do you?" unnerved by such a pronouncement; thinking on his own pledge to himself to try and keep d'Artagnan safe.

"I am resourceful." d'Artagnan proclaimed looking up to the night sky as if looking there would bring words to his argument.

Athos nodded once in agreement.

"As you know, I think quickly on my feet; have been known to wield a pretty fair sword – and am a good shot. " He smiled cheekily at his friend, "I am a damn good soldier Athos and have been taught by the best."

Athos could not help but chuckle; and replied, "This is true."

With no more words coming to him, and with Athos lack of response irritating him to no end, d'Artagnan stood, exasperated and looked down at his friend – who sat and looked into the flames as if mesmerized. "Get some rest d'Artagnan, we ride out early tomorrow."

d'Artagnan walked toward his blanket and flung himself to the ground; taking respite with the stars – feeling exhausted by his brief attempt to get Athos to see his point and to listen. Well, he knew Athos had listened, but hoped he had heard him also. He needed to be seen as an equal – to have some modicum of independence – to contribute in some way.

He laid his head back; threw his arm over his face; covered his eyes, and willed himself to relax and go to sleep. Perhaps tomorrow he would get his opportunity.

After a time, Porthos rolled over, sat up and faced his friend. He was not one to interfere, but loved these men greatly. "If you don't loosen your grip Athos – he will break free; and who knows which way he will go. Is that what you want?"

Athos looked up then, his eyes sad and almost resigned, "What I want is for him to survive this mission and the next."

Porthos laughed softly, and bowed his head, "He is a soldier my friend – this is our way. You can't protect him from battle; and he can't live his life on your fears."

Athos nodded, and quirked a slight smile, "You are wise Porthos. Thank you."

Porthos gripped his chest in mock surprise; and lay back down to sleep. The morning would be on them soon and the way things stood, they would all need as much rest as they could muster.

* * *

The next day as the musketeers and Rochefort made their way closer and closer to the prison – Athos looked over to his young friend; remembered his words to him and heard the truth in them.

d'Artagnan was a good soldier – a good man – a fine musketeer and deserved to make his mark and show his merit. Who was he to hold him back?

Last night, he had strategized and knew he needed someone to ride ahead and scout out the prison. He had first thought to send Aramis – but now – he thought to send d'Artagnan. He would use his ability to ride hard through difficult underbrush; his skill at memorizing detail and his ability to think quickly if things should go wrong – and above all, he knew d'Artagnan would follow orders.

So, he called d'Artagnan to his side and gave his instructions – talking fast to keep from changing his mind – "Ride to the prison. Report back. If anything goes wrong, your mission remains the same. Rescue him if you can – but if not – your orders are clear. The General cannot remain alive in Spanish hands."

When he was done – he gave a brief nod – acknowledging d'Artagnan's expression of gratitude and determination. His eyes spoke volumes; he would not let them down.

And then he was gone, over the rise and out of sight. His heart clenched. Would this be the last time he ever saw him? Should he have said something more; to let him know how proud he was of him?

He had given in and let him go. He instinctively turned and sought out Porthos' gaze – which conveyed strength and agreement with his decision.

He peered deep inside himself; and knew he had confidence in d'Artagnan's abilities. He would see d'Artagnan soon. After all he had promised.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Reviews are greatly, greatly appreciated! As always, positive comments are like water and sunshine - can't grow without them! I hope you enjoyed chapter 1.


	2. Chapter 2

In the Pursuit of

By: Musketeer Adventure

Summary: This chapter takes place during the season 2 episode, Keep Your Friends Closer. Milady and Richelieu are no longer a threat; and Rochefort has been introduced. Constance, Monsieur Bonacieux, and d'Artagnan complete a heartbreaking triangle; and all search to accept their fate.

* * *

Chapter 2: The Search for Acceptance

Bonacieux was beside himself. The King's carriage was here. What an honor it was to be summoned by his regent. He moved closer and studied the transport with anticipation; his heart in his throat; the excitement of it causing him to have goosebumps.

Soon he would be in the presence of the King of France.

All his life he had worked diligently for this moment. First alongside his father; then under his watchful eye; and now as a first rate craftsman and business man in his own right – his father would be proud to know a Bonacieux would walk the halls of the palace. He sighed deeply, feeling quite pleased with himself.

He looked to the street and held his head high, as the neighbors watched with jealous awe. He smiled widely and twirled his hat – encouraging even the bystanders to look his way.

Yes. Now was his moment. To be held in such high esteem by his majesty himself, would set him apart from the other merchants. More trade would definitely come his way. He would become a wealthy man – move his wife away from this crowded street; the cramped space they lived in; and the nearby traffic of the musketeer garrison.

There would be no more need to take in tenants to supplement the income; no more need to work from home; and no more need to see d'Artagnan orbiting his world and his wife.

He sighed then; and looked about. Where was his wife anyway? Where could Constance be hiding herself? He had told her to wait out here; and to be ready. Lately, it was as if she did not hear a word he said.

He looked back toward the house and fidgeted from side to side. He was sure that punctuality was a virtue the King would most admire. They needed to make a good impression; start things off on the right foot.

But of course – he would have to go and find her. He looked up at the man seated atop the carriage and said earnestly, "Please wait here – I will go and fetch my wife. It will just be a moment." The driver nodded down at him; and Monsieur Bonacieux went back toward the house to retrieve his wife.

When he found her – the sight she presented – eyes closed; hands clasped; her red hair shining with hints of sun streaks, made him gasp. How beautiful she was. The sheets hanging to dry that billowed around her, only made her lovelier – framing her in fluttering white linen.

That she had grown from the gangly girl, he had married all those years ago, to this attractive young woman – always took him aback. If he had met her today – would she even look twice in his direction?

And now – here she stood – still as porcelain, as if a statue.

Recently, he would find her like this – daydreaming he supposed; standing still in one place; the parlor or in the pantry – staring out into nothing – eyes glistening.

Or he would find her sitting – her hands engaged in some task – sewing; snapping peas; washing dishes – and they would freeze in mid motion – and she would be gazing far off with such longing that it did pain him.

He knew she was unhappy; and dreamed of him.

Before d'Artagnan entered their lives, she dreamed of excitement; adventure; newness – things he could not give her. She use to speak to him of it; but now he supposed she had found her adventure. Now, they only spoke of everyday things that had no meaning – or held little importance.

And so there she stood – dreaming now – of what; he could easily guess – as her breath came quick and she squeezed her hands together all the tighter. He closed the image down in his mind; because now, today was his chance to perhaps win her back. If he could get this commission from the palace – have the backing of the Royal House – he could give her whatever she desired.

He pursed his lips – but what she desired most was not him.

Bonacieux shook his thoughts loose to concentrate on the present; it was time to go.

"Constance, the carriage is here", he called out – pulling back the sheets. She stood so very still; and did not respond – so deep she was in her daydreams.

He called to her again, "For God's sake woman, did you not hear a word I said?" Her eyes opened wide, as if waking from a trance; and he brusquely pushed the linen aside. "It would be easier talking to a donkey."

He knew he was being condescending – but could not stop himself. For the past several months – every time he addressed her, something cruel – subtle or not – would pass his lips. Each day he would vow to temper himself; but each day it became more and more difficult. She loved another – who was younger; stronger; gifted; and adventurous.

He was such a fool. He had thought their marriage a happy one until d'Artagnan showed up. He had provided a home – a part time maid to help with house work – a horse and buggy; and the finest clothes his trade could provide – and he did not beat her. But it wasn't enough it seemed.

Maybe if they had been gifted with children, things would be different. Children kept women busy; occupied; giving them little time to look outside the home for fulfillment. They had not been so lucky. But maybe his luck was turning; and she would see him differently now.

When she looked his way; and became aware of him; and shared that she had been dreaming; he wanted to know of what, so then, he could compete with it – but changed his mind – she wouldn't really tell him anyway.

So they moved toward the waiting carriage and stepped into finery; with the soft, cushioned seats and silk forest green upholstered interior – he could not help but smile. He could do much better by this design, he thought.

When he looked across to his wife – she was actually smiling at him. It was a smile that reached her eyes. It had been so rare to see her smile directed at him, that he smiled genuinely back.

Maybe there was hope for them.

* * *

Constance sat across from Bonacieux and thought – in moments like this he was such a little boy. She knew he loved his craft and saw beauty in cloth; design and dress. His eyes would light up at certain colors, his hands trembled over fine textures; and he loved the smell of new wool. When she first met him – it was what endeared him to her.

His devotion to his craft was as good a reason as any to take the vow of marriage. If he was devoted to his occupation – then he would be devoted to her.

He was a man who was not afraid of hard work; and not afraid to be smirked at for his eccentricities. And though they did not love each other – he had tried over the years to make her happy and keep her comfortable. And she in turn, had tried to make his life easier – to keep his house and to help with the business.

She had been a child when she married Bonacieux; and had not had the time to learn what love really felt like. But if not love - he had given her security; and she was grateful.

That he lived life day to day – mired in the drudgery of the moment – and did not look around to take in the excitement that swirled around them – was the difference in them.

Maybe if they had been blessed with children, things would have been different – a buffer – who she could pour all her love, and dreams of adventure into and leave her husband to the mundane.

But it had not worked out that way – and now, as time passed without the joy of motherhood – she hoped it would not happen. To bring a child into this unhappiness would perhaps be cruel and unfair.

Just now, when he had smiled at her so openly; and so true, it reminded her of the young man he used to be – eager to please an even younger wife; at the beginning of his career and at the beginning of her life. It was good to see him happy, even if briefly.

She turned from Bonacieux and looked out the window; and watched the streets of Paris flow by. After a while the faces and activity of the people became a blur and her mind fell on d'Artagnan – her love; her life; her soul mate. To be without him was painful. She had no appetite; her energy low – she felt always as if she were walking through a thick fog – her limbs and heart heavy – as if she were grieving.

But when she looked across at her husband, she knew she would not leave him. He needed her; and would not live without her. He had proven that already; to her detriment. They would only part in death – this she felt to her core.

She hoped that this summons would work out for him. Something good needed to come his way – to take that pinched looked away – lift his spirits so that he would perhaps be kinder; gentler; and more caring. He didn't just need this; they both needed it.

She was not sure how much more of his disdain she could shoulder without breaking.

* * *

When they finally reached the palace – it was the Queen who gave them audience – who had sent for them; no, sent for his wife. The hope; anticipation for better things, had turned into humiliation.

Bonacieux's world crashed around him. He was surprised no one else heard the cacophony of noise that was his life breaking to pieces around them.

Of course it was d'Artagnan who had recommended his wife as a confidant to the Queen. He clenched his mouth shut and ground his teeth to keep from screaming out the unfairness of it all. He had tried to put on a neutral face; to appear unaffected by the turn of events; but the Queen had shut him down and turned away; whispering to his wife and closing him out.

There would be no commission; no upward mobility; no connections to the Royal House – at least not for him.

All his dreams – his father's dreams – dashed, gone – all that had happened here today was that he was one step closer to losing his wife. She would live here among these nobles and leave him behind.

He could not even oppose the Queen's wishes. He was just supposed to accept the fact that he would be separated from his wife – pushing her into the arms of her lover; into the world of excitement; and surrounded by adventure. This is what Constance wanted – he could see it on her face when she smiled and agreed to the Queen's request. "I would like it very much", he heard her say; and he had no chance.

Just that quickly – they were dismissed. His wife was to come home; pack her belongings; leave his house; and live here in the palace – to serve the Queen of France.

Before his mind could even wrap around these events – he was being swept away by the musketeers – asking him inane questions, he could not comprehend – because he was losing his wife. When he looked back, there he was, with her; and in that moment his heart turned to stone.

Constance stood next to d'Artagnan, and felt her heart flutter. He stood before her, being very polite and formal- calling her Madame. She could tell he was pleased with himself for recommending the position for her. She smiled at him, but was worried at the same time.

What had he done? He had effectively constructed a moat between her and Bonacieux that she would not be unable to cross.

But she could not deny it, she was truly grateful for this opportunity – a chance to be among the excitement; to make a real difference. She looked into his eyes and would forever love him for this gesture.

But today her husband had been devastated; and knew that this gesture would not go over well; and told him so, "Please d'Artagnan, you have to leave me alone now", she pleaded and hoped he heard her.

She left his side to join her husband. He had to accept – no she had to accept that this was never going to happen; they were not meant to be - too much conspired against them; she would take this gift he had presented to her and cherish it.

She would go home now, and try to smooth things over, in hopes that her husband would not hate them the more.

* * *

When d'Artagnan found his self again, he blinked and she was gone. He looked around confused and felt uncertain. He had only wanted to help; if he could not give his love – then why not this? This position would make her happy. It's what she wanted – craved out of life; not the banal day to day routine she lived now.

He could see her now, in his mind's eye, wielding a sword as good as any man; holding her musket steady and pulling the trigger for a bull's eye. She was the bravest; most courageous and one of the smartest people he knew. No other woman could hold a candle to her.

Was he to just accept that he could not have her; that he was to never love her as she deserved to be loved – all because she was married?

How could this be happening? He had thought to bring them closer; to move her away from her husband's sharp tongue; and disrespectful air. Obviously, she was choosing him – again. Maybe he should just let her go.

When he reached the top of the opulent staircase, he was never so glad to see anyone as he was to see Athos, waiting for him below. He always seemed to be there – to provide support without being asked. He never said much; but what he did say meant everything. Just standing there now, waiting – kept him from flying into a hundred different pieces.

Lately, he had wanted space from the man – needed his independence; wanted to make a truly individual mark – but now he welcomed his presence and needed it.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Athos grabbed his neck and squeezed – guiding him away so as not to see the waiting carriage and witness the Bonacieux's step in.

* * *

Thank you for reading; and thank you to those who have already reviewed, favorited and followed. Please let me know what you think. This was quite a departure for me; and I hope it came off well. It has been a rough day; seeing reviews will help lift my spirts!


	3. Chapter 3

In the Pursuit of

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: This chapter takes place during the season 2 episode, Keep Your Friends Closer. Milady and Richelieu are no longer a threat; and Rochefort has been introduced. Aramis finds his emotions riding high with joy and low with deep regrets; and must search for a way to keep revelations concealed.

* * *

Chapter 3: The Search for Revelation

The garrison was falling into night; the sky painted simply gray in that in between time of light and dark, leaving an unsettled mark for the end of the day. They had only returned from their audience with the King, just hours ago; and around them – the garrison yard activity was coming to a close; the evening meal completed; musketeers headed to quarters – out on the town – or to posted duties.

All was back to normal; and it felt good.

Aramis looked to the dusky sky, and could see it clouding over; and could smell the gathering precipitation overhead in the dark, fluffy clouds. He could hear the clapping of thunder in the distance and knew that soon the heavens would open and pour down much needed rain.

Right now, the air was heavy with humidity – causing him to sweat as he began the jobs of unsaddling his horse; and preparing him for grooming – cleaning his saddle and putting away his supplies. He looked around at his brothers nearby – going about their end of day tasks, and was glad to be in their good company.

It had been a difficult mission – fraught with the real danger of losing their lives; but they had all made it back – none the worse for wear. Aramis sent up a prayer of thankfulness and watched his brothers fondly.

d'Artagnan seemed pleased with himself for having broken free of recent constraints; yet he also seemed to be holding something sad close to his vest. He knew the earlier conversation with Constance must have been painful for him; he would investigate later – and provide words of solace if need be.

He observed with a light heart as Porthos, vociferously let everyone and anyone, know how happy he was to be back on French soil among his family, the musketeers – smiling widely and giving over the top accounts of their daring do. He understood this was Porthos' way of coming down from the high of mission adrenaline; and would likely join him later tonight and share in his contentment.

Athos worked alone; quietly and made relieved glances in his protégé's direction – glad he had survived the freedom given him; and the harrowing events of the rescue. He knew how much Athos loved d'Artagnan and would drive home the need to let him continue to grow; and that the boy they all cared for now, was turning into a fine young man.

So it was with great happiness that Aramis could smile at how luck and God's good grace had seen them through – once again.

But what mattered most was that General de Foix and Lucie were safe; along with France's military secrets. The mission had been a success. But that General de Foix would survive his wound was still unknown. Sadly, things did not look hopeful for him. His wound infected and his body weakening from blood loss, Aramis was unsure the man would survive the night. He would ready himself, if he were called upon.

One other major downfall of the mission was Rochefort taking credit for the rescue; his duplicitous nature unnoticed by his Majesty – who could not wait it seemed to hear of the man's heroic exploits.

Aramis sniffed with displeasure – hero indeed – the man had almost gotten them killed on several occasions during this mission. The King's instant liking to him did not bode well. Deep down inside, he could sense something menacing when it came to Rochefort; a foreshadowing of dark times to come; almost like d'Artagnan's premonitions when it came to Athos – only this ominous feeling claimed him only.

Aramis shook his head to dislodge such negative thoughts and resolved to put this mission out of his mind for the moment; and to instead think of his son. His chance encounter with the dauphin earlier in the week had been a marvel. Even since before his birth – he had dreamed of meeting the child; a glimpse he told himself would be satisfactory – for in his heart, he knew him already.

But in the halls of the palace, not only did he get a glimpse; he also received a formal introduction to his son, the Royal Prince – by non-other than his governess; and in that brief encounter the beginnings of a plan to be near him began to take shape.

He frowned – ashamed of his thoughts. To manipulate a woman to gain access to his son was devious and disgraceful. He loved women; and had great respect for them – to think his mind had fallen on such an act…. He let it go for now. He was not even sure he was capable of such a thing.

During the mission – he had put the child from his mind – but now, as the breeze hit his face and thunder continued to roll toward Paris – he felt free to recall him.

When the governess had allowed him audience to view the child, he looked down on his countenance; and felt pride swell through his chest. Yes, the lord had blessed him with a fine looking boy- healthy, hardy and whole. The Queen must be pleased.

As he looked closer he saw that he recognized that face – the nose – his eyes; there was no doubt, this boy was his son. Looking back at him was his father's jaw; his brother's fairness; and his sister's lips. There was no mistake to be had; this likeness to the d'Herblay clan was strong. His family blood line ran through the veins of the next King of France.

Aramis placed his saddle aside and breathed deeply – yes, he was a father and felt the connection keenly. And though he would not be able to teach his son the navigation to manhood; he could protect him at all costs. He would keep this secret; and with Athos' help, hopefully for the rest of his life.

Smiling slightly as he worked – he brought his boy's image to the forefront. How strong he looked. He had been pleased to see the plumpness of his cheeks and the weight he carried. He could have sworn, even in their brief encounter – that the child had smiled at him and knew him instantly. Perhaps that was wishful thinking – but he thought it all the same.

Did not children have a sense of their parents – and knew instantly the bond of father and son?

After his impromptu meeting – Athos had stood with him, and though his words had meant to be practical, they had hurt him deeply. To deny his son – was like denying his own life. But he agreed with his friend; he knew he could never be the child's father – and accepted it. But in his heart, he would never deny him.

He would be the dauphin's most loyal of subjects for the rest of his life; would die to keep him safe; and would gladly spout untruths in the face of God to protect him from his sins.

Aramis finished wiping down his saddle and putting away his supplies; and in that very moment he thought of how his son gave him much joy and was now intent to carry this joy over into celebration with his brothers – under the guise of a successfully completed mission. Yes – he would toast secretly to the safe delivery of his newborn son; the well-being of his mother; and his lasting good health.

Thunder clapped closer and the breeze picked up minutely – causing the horses to step lightly with nervous energy within their stalls; and just as he was to propose the Wren – there hiding in the stable shadows was one of Richelieu's trusted Bishops staring out at him.

Suddenly his good humor turned into anxiety. Who was this Bishop lurking about; watching him; and asking for him by name? His face looked familiar; but his name escaped him – as he was one of many men of cloth who walked the halls of the palace.

The man then ominously crooked his finger; beckoning him to follow – as he had a message from the Cardinal directly from the grave. Aramis was confounded. What could this possibly mean?

With trepidation, he gathered his coat and hat – and with Athos at his side followed this mysterious man across the garrison yard – and out into the streets of Paris.

"Where is he leading us?" Athos asked him, with wariness in his voice – as they stepped around sleeping vagrants; ignored imploring soft arms; and passed by raucous noise emanating from tavern doors.

The Paris night life was fully awake now – ignoring the coming storm overhead. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders with uncertainty.

Where ever they were headed was making him nervous. The dark path before him – along with the intermittent moans of thunder - reminded him of a passage in Psalms - not understanding; walking about in darkness and the foundations of the earth shaken – as he was shaken now.

But as they continued to walk, Aramis got a sense of their destination. Up ahead he could see the small parish church that sat within a large field – totally foreign and apart from the city. He had visited here before – good people worshiped here; a small congregation – the priest a pleasant man. What were they doing here?

As they approached, the Bishop opened the church doors and led them through. As they advanced to the altar; each bending to their right knee and showed their deep respect.

Moving away from the altar and following the Bishop – Aramis continued to wonder where they were being herded. Surely the Bishop meant them no harm, here in this place of God?

He then led them to the back of the church; and down a winding staircase to the burial tombs. Here below ground, it was cool and dark – except for the hanging flames that chased deathly shadows into the corners. This is where he wanted to reveal his message from Richelieu?

He looked toward Athos frowning; unclear of the purpose of this nocturnal journey – then to the Bishop for understanding. The Bishop gestured toward the stone markers set upon the walls. At first Aramis did not understand – what was the message from the other side? Was it that death would find them? Surely that was not enough of a message to bring them all the way out here?

But then Athos understood first, "I did not know Adele was dead", he voiced as he moved toward the marker; and then looked to him in confusion.

Aramis felt as if he had been punched. Before him stood the marker for Adele Bessette –her remembrance - she died for love – screaming at him - like a spirit who could not rest. He covered his mouth to keep himself from groaning – the pain of this revelation causing his stomach to churn. Adele was dead? It could not be.

He turned to the Bishop and Athos in disbelief, "The last I heard, she'd gone to the Cardinal's country estate. I thought she'd made her choice", his voice felt small; as if swallowed up by the tepid air here below ground. His heart beat began to race; and he could feel the flush of heat encase his body. What had the Cardinal done?

The Bishop smiled serenely at him and suddenly took on Richelieu's shape and form – no longer the Bishop, but now a specter. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again – but still Richelieu stood before him.

The Cardinal's voice then began speaking through him – as if a medium, "She did Monsieur, and she chose you. He killed her, because she loved you."

Something took hold of him then; and Aramis reached out to kill the man before him with his bare hands. Rage he had not felt since Savoy surged through his body – taking control of his actions. Only Athos screaming and pushing the Bishop away – saved his life in that moment; perhaps saved him as well; for surely he would have choked the life out of him without any remorse.

God forgive him – he was going mad. He reached for his hair and pulled hard – desperate to feel anything but this hopelessness and despair.

The Bishop, cool and non-pulsed, slinked away with a parting verbal blow which rocked Aramis to his core. "The Cardinal knew all your secrets. He will expose your sins, even from beyond the grave", and then he was gone – absorbed as all ghosts were by the waiting darkness.

Aramis was stunned. He let lose his hair and stared down into the palms of his hands – seeing red splashed there – between his fingers; in his nails. He looked to Athos unable to speak – my God he had killed Adele. Suddenly he understood the significance of his musket – returned to him by Adele's servant. Returned to him as a message then – he did not understand. But he understood now. The Cardinal may have committed the act – but her death was on his hands.

He rubbed at his hands and found Athos staring at him unable to articulate; beyond speech himself over what had just transpired.

Aramis turned to face Adele's marker – moved toward it and touched it solemnly. He pivoted then and railed to Athos; unable to control his emotions – "Every woman I truly love dies."

Athos calmly advised – "All the more reason to stay away from the Queen, and the dauphin." But deep down, Athos knew, they were on a dangerous course that sooner or later would lead to revelations that may destroy not only Aramis, but France.

Aramis slid to the floor under Adele's marker – she died for love – accusing him of abandonment; anguish and murder. How would he live with himself? Adele – Isabelle – would the Queen be next?

He drew his knees up and covered his face with his hands, breathing hard – trying to block out the image of Adele being murdered with his musket. His sins were great; and now God was punishing him.

He thought back on his last meeting with Adele. How lovely she was – her skin soft – her laugh contagious. A tear slipped from beneath his hands – she had such passion.

He lifted his head and leaned back against the wall behind him and sought out Athos, who stood awkwardly before him – unsure how to provide comfort. "I did love her you know. But I did know – her love for me was stronger. We courted danger Athos, but I swear we did not know it would lead to death."

He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes causing sparks to erupt behind his eye lids, "Isabelle; now Adele – what of my boy Athos?"

Athos slid down next to his friend and wasn't sure what to say now, that he hadn't already said – to stay away – give up the fantasy of being the child's father; and to go to his death with his secret; keeping his head down and his emotions in check – to not draw suspicion.

What else was there to say? He was complicit in this secret as well; treason and death a real possibility for them both.

Instead, he placed his arm around Aramis' shoulder; drew him close and vowed with conviction, "I will keep this secret; no one will drag it from me unless you allow it. I love you brother; and will help you through this."

Aramis nodded with gratitude, and voiced what was between them, "What of d'Artagnan and Porthos?"

"For now we continue to keep this between us. Treason is the worry. Keeping them safe from the noose is the priority."

Aramis shuddered – a foreboding chill tingling down his spine. He hated keeping things from Porthos; but saw the wisdom in this. He sent up a brief prayer for guidance, and nodded in agreement with Athos' assessment. Their brothers would be better off not knowing.

For a time, they continued to sit side by side beneath Adele's marker- each man thinking on the night's revelation. Aramis' heart ached with regrets. Richelieu had reached through the grave to terrorize him; endanger his Queen; and jeopardize his son's livelihood. He placed his head on his friend's shoulder; and stared out into nothing.

After a while, Aramis and Athos stood from the ground and faced each other- Athos facing Aramis with assurance and Aramis facing him with the guilt of his actions. When he could stand the scrutiny no longer, he attempted to retreat, but Athos reached for his shoulders and pulled him in close; kissing his temple and softly declared, "All will be well."

Aramis lowered his head, and let out a shuddering breath, "Then I will believe you."

When they left the dark space of the burial tombs; and eventually stood at the door of the small parish church, Aramis could see that the rain had come with a vengeance – pelting the ground, pooling together; causing puddles to form.

He took in a long, deep breath and could smell the dampening earth. Rain held a cleansing symbolism; perhaps this was a good sign. He reached his hands out from the door way into the rain and hoped Adele would forgive him.

Athos looked through the sheets of water, pouring down from the sky; and felt the thunder continue to rumble beneath their feet. He clapped Aramis on the back – a gesture that they should get going; and leave this place – their brothers waited for them back at the garrison.

Aramis nodded; they left the shelter of the church and sprinted together through the driving rain toward home.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews are always welcomed and appreciated. I wasn't so sure about the church scene, but hope that I described the respect for the altar correctly.


	4. Chapter 4

In the Pursuit of

By: Musketeer Adventure

Summary: This chapter takes place during the season 2 episode, Keep Your Friends Closer. Milady and Richelieu are no longer a threat; and Rochefort has been introduced. Treville finds that his loyalty runs deep for Porthos and will do anything to keep truths hidden.

* * *

Chapter 4: The Search for Hidden Truths

Treville leaned on the railing of the walkway and watched solemnly as the rescue party for General de Foix, made ready to leave the garrison. His stomach churned as he watched Rochefort exit the gate first – and felt a sense of unease- that left him with only mistrust for the man – who outwardly portrayed the essence of patriotism and love for the King. Athos had jokingly mentioned a possible accident on the road. Now, he wondered how much of joke it really was; and if he should have put more credence in the comment.

But he trusted his instincts and the instincts of his musketeers; and knew thy felt the Comte's callousness as much as he did. They would do well to watch their backs. On the positive side, he had no reservations, his musketeers were resourceful, competent and the best he had to offer.

Athos nodded up respectfully in his direction and he nodded back – sending the silent message of the Captain to his Lieutenant – good luck and safe return. But it was Porthos' wave he looked for as horse and rider looked to step out from the gate into the Paris streets.

It was their custom, between them, that if he could be here when he left the yard on an assignment – he would wait for Porthos to turn; and raise his hand in acknowledgment - their eyes would meet, and this would mean – I'll be home soon.

He couldn't remember how this ritual came to be, but it was one he would not alter; and now it meant even more to him – to be sure to see him off; to know he had made his promise to come back.

He watched them all with pride and the worry that came with command, and then waited as Porthos turned in his saddle – smiled and lifted his hand. He returned the pledge with a brief smile of his own, and continued to stand and watch from the walkway until he could see him no more. Athos would be sure to keep them all safe; and Porthos would keep his promise as he always did.

Treville stood still for several moments more looking out over the garrison yard, which was teaming with musketeers and continuous activity. Two more regiments would be heading out soon today – each also commencing to journey into dangerous situations that could mean loss of life.

He knew all of their backgrounds; their histories; heartbreaks and losses. It seemed that all around them, the Spanish were encroaching, closer and closer. Intelligence indicated that it would not take much for things to spill over into war.

He loved all these men and cared for them deeply. To send them out into harm's way; always left him feeling reflective – and today was no different. For though he respected all his men the same, if the issue were pressed; and he were asked who he relied on and trusted most; it would have to be his inseparables.

He had chosen his four best musketeers to go on the mission to keep the secrets of France from Spain; and rescue a friend he had not seen in almost twenty years – whose name had brought back memories that flooded his senses.

He let out a slow even breath and entered his office; closing the door behind him; hoping to get some time to himself so that he could think – think things through – think about the past – and think about what he was to do next.

He could not deny that hearing de Foix's name and that he lived had set him back. It was a shock to hear that he was alive. The revelation from Rochefort had been hard to believe. It had been common knowledge that de Foix had been killed fighting with the Swedes in Nuremburg. If not dead; then where had he been all this time? How long had the Spanish been holding him prisoner? What, if anything, did Spain already know?

If what Rochefort reported was true, then France's military secrets were at risk and he was at risk of finding and then losing a brother in one fell swoop.

General de Foix, his brother alive. Yes, there had been a time, when he was no older than d'Artagnan, that he; de Foix and Belgard – ran a close resemblance to his inseparables. Their deep bond had been forged in the easy camaraderie of youth.

He settled more in his seat, and recalled how they had lived together – trained together – and fought side by side. As thick as thieves they were – together in all things; loyal to a fault.

In their time at the academy; he had been the youngest- full of energy with a devil may care mentality. He fought hard; loved hard and took brotherhood and honor so seriously – they called him old man at twenty.

de Foix had been older, and his voice of reason. He had been studious; well read; philosophical about life and had kept him in check. He would have not made it through the academy without him. He took him under his wing – made him sit long enough to study and taught him the understanding of strategy, in all things.

He remembered de Foix saying to him, "There is strategy in war; but also with love, friendship, and brotherhood." A good man was de Foix….no, is – he corrected himself. To see him again would be good. They had shared many things. And even though he had not seen him or heard from him in twenty years; they shared a secret still.

And then there was their third, Belgard – who was smooth as butter; could turn a phrase; and capture the heart of any woman he wished; and manipulate any event to turn in his favor. His looks were imposing; and might be considered handsome. He could win a fight without ever lifting a sword; his tongue could be that harsh; and could lay the groundwork for deception, easily making dishonesty his ally.

He was tall – lean – and quick on his feet. He always seemed to have the answers, and his wealth only made his life seem that much easier. He did everything well; and good luck seemed to follow him.

Treville had looked up to them both; and as they grew as men – their bond seemed to him – only to get stronger.

Looking back, those times seemed uncomplicated; and straight forward. He had loved his brothers through the filter of youth and naivety.

He rubbed his eyes with exasperation; the past crashing around him, forcing him to look at things the way they really were. As a young man – what did he honestly know of love; heartbreak; and truth – until it reached up and bit him, causing his foundation of friendship to crack?

Treville began to message his temples; past memories causing a spike of pain to flash behind his left eye.

Back then, as it was happening, he had not felt Belgard a liar and a user. But later he knew; he had used them – used their love for him to abandon his child and his mother.

He had been so convincing. He could hear his voice pleading with them now – full of fear and trepidation. If his father found out he had loved a former slave woman, and fathered a child; he would disown him- worst case scenario – kill him; and they had believed him. The old and recent scars on his body a testament to the beatings he had incurred from his father – gave them a feel for the cruelty of the man. "He might even kill the child", Belgard had insisted.

So he and de Foix had agreed to spirit her and the child away – to save her he had thought; left them at a disreputable Tavern on the edge of the city with all the coin they could gather from their meager savings.

He remembered how beautiful she was; how defeated her posture; her eyes sad and distant – her child, a tiny little fellow, clinging to her neck, trembling as she held him close. When they had gone to find her, she had agreed to go, to take their money – she had seemed eager to run. "We will get by", she had told them. Looking back on it – he realized she had no choices.

It was they who should have done different. They had done this thing out of a misguided sense of honor – a code he found out later Belgard did not even believe in.

As time passed, they had begun to move beyond each other – their bond fractured, by this dishonorable secret. What they had done marred their brotherhood beyond repair.

de Foix had begun to move up and onward, then eventually away from Paris; his career taking off – his genius with strategy evident and getting noticed by all the right people. Belgard used his family influence to be reassigned in a regiment away from Paris; and soon the three of them were separated and contact lost.

Treville remembered how he fought to stay in Paris; and to join the musketeers – determined to find her; to go back – help the mother and child. When he lay to sleep at night, all he could see were her large brown eyes, and her whispered pledge, "We will get by."

Early on he searched night after night; had gone back to the Tavern; searched the city street by street – then his search waned week to week; and then later month to month. It was if they had vanished from the face of the earth – he could find not a trace.

Eventually he would enter the slums; later called the Court of Miracles, once a year on a grim anniversary to spend days searching – asking questions – then extending his search to the outskirts of Paris, hoping she had made good on her pledge "to get by".

And even as year after year went by; and he advanced in his career to Captain - he knew he would never leave Paris, until he found them.

Then one day, after twenty years of searching – there he was, walking toward him, passing through the gate into the garrison yard – a tall, wavy haired, brown skinned young man – who walked like Belgard – and carried his features; their eyes just the same. He walked straight up to him, as if he knew him, reached out his hand in greeting and asked, "How do I get to be a musketeer?"

And from that handshake on, he would salute Porthos at the gate before leaving the yard; would defend him to any man who would question his honor and loyalty; stand by his side; and champion his dream of becoming a musketeer. He would be the one to place the pauldron on his shoulder. He would do anything for him.

When Porthos had gained his commission – he had hired a man to find Belgard. And when he had located him; it was also uncovered that his military career was over. Now it seemed Belgard just sat; holed up as some recluse, holding tight to his inheritance – as selfish as ever; his estate smelling ripe with decadence.

Going to see him opened his eyes further to the harshness and insensitivity of the man. He had turned his back to him, saying he did not wish to see Porthos, or to know him. He wanted nothing to do with him, and held Treville to his promise; an oath given in youth, with no real understanding.

Yes, he had promised and he would keep that promise now; not because of misplaced honor, but because Belgard did not deserve him. Porthos was an exceptional man; one of his best musketeers; and full of the determination he had seen in his mother – who he laid eyes on briefly that fateful day. Porthos was his family now, and if up to him; would not have him ever know Belgard was his father.

He stood then from his desk, walked to the door and let in the fresh air.

When de Foix came back with the rescue party, it would be good to see him – to find out where he had been all these years. He had loved the man once, and would like to know him again. But he also knew it would open up old wounds. As he knew who Porthos was right away – he knew it would be so with de Foix.

He stood back out on the walkway and watched as the next regiment mounted up, and readied to leave the garrison. He nodded to their Lieutenant, and prayed as always, that they would all come back safe.

His thoughts then fell to Porthos; and though only a few hours gone wondered how he was doing. Treville bowed his head and thought on the circumstances surrounding this secret, and knew that if Porthos found out his part, may not forgive him. He was not sure he could live with Porthos' disappointment.

So, he would keep the truth hidden from him for as long as he could. Being a musketeer was his life; his family; the garrison his home – this is where he belonged.

After all this time – he would not hurt him now.

When he returned, he would sit with him as he always did and hear his personal account of the mission; listen to the boisterous embellishments; and laugh at the antics of the inseparables; and be glad he had kept his pledge to come home.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Please review and let me know what you think. I always wondered how Treville finally found Porthos – and since in the episode it mentioned divine intervention – I thought it could be as simple as this.


	5. Chapter 5

In the Pursuit of

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: This chapter takes place during the season 2 episode, Keep Your Friends Closer. Milady and Richelieu are no longer a threat; and Rochefort has been introduced. The musketeers feel great relief and immense sadness after the rescue mission of de Foix; and their search for solidarity brings them closer together.

* * *

Chapter 5: The Search for Solidarity

Athos leaned against the pillar; barely in the shade and smiled slightly at his young friend.

The noon day was unnaturally quiet; the sun shown bright and radiated waves of heat. There was not a cloud in the sky to filter the dazzling rays – thus the almost empty yard; devoid of its usual clamor. It was hard to believe that only just last night; a torrential rain storm had swept through Paris – causing the yard to become muddy and tacky. Now, this afternoon, dust swirled around ankles; floated in the air; blanketed their clothes and hair, causing men to sneeze; wheeze and seek the indoors.

Only d'Artagnan seemed hungry enough to partake in the meal. Athos watched him a bit bemused; and was amazed that he still had an appetite after such a distressing mission; conflict with love and now death. This alone indicated his youth. The young, he thought, were always hungry; and hungrier still when under stress.

Though the garrison yard was nearly empty of musketeer activity; his brothers sat nearby, also astonished at d'Artagnan's appetite. Recent events left them with little desire for food or drink. The need to eat could wait.

Porthos sat intently cleaning his weapons; each needing to outshine the other – the act of wiping down giving his hands a sense of purpose and his mind a task to keep him settled. Aramis paced along-side the table – his energy level high. Nocturnal visits to hear messages from beyond the grave making him feel on edge.

Athos stood; because he was unable to sit. He watched his friends through hooded eye lids – his mind falling on the recent talk he just had with his Captain. To have turned down the offer of his Majesty to sit on his council – had all but opened the door for Rochefort to be named the new Captain of the Red Guard.

Athos crossed his arms about his chest and breathed deeply. Though politics was not his strong suit; and he did not pretend to understand all of its nuisances – he did feel that this appointment for Rochefort would eventually lead to a more powerful position.

Everyone could see that the King was lost without the Cardinal. Not only had he depended on the man for all of the affairs of state; he had truly loved him. To be near the King was to see and know that his grief was heartfelt. He was utterly adrift without his confidant. And if the King was lost; France was soon to follow.

Athos closed his eyes to the sun and leaned his head back to rest on the pillar. He could not understand Treville's reasoning for declining the position. Treville was a well-respected member of the court. He was knowledgeable; beyond loyal to the King; and had great common sense. It was obvious the King held him in great esteem; and that the Cardinal himself – when he lived - grudgingly trusted him to work diligently on France's behalf.

Athos shook his head, and wondered where this decision would lead the country.

He pulled away from the pillar and leaned against the table; measuring proudly his brothers. Their mission of rescue had been a success. Secrets remained secure – and they, themselves; had made it home safely.

However, de Foix's wound had proved fatal; and he had not survived the night. Lucie de Foix was distraught – alone now and uncertain of her future. He had noticed d'Artagnan's attentiveness towards her throughout the ordeal; and could tell he was torn between his concern for Lucie's well-being and his love for Constance.

Last night, as thunder and rain bombarded the area – they had all stood vigil outside the infirmary – hoping de Foix would make a turn for the better and fight the fever that ravished his body. But it was not to be. He had been too weak to fight the blood loss and the infection. There had been nothing Aramis or the physician could do.

So he was given Laudanum and made comfortable. Treville and Lucie sat with him during his final hours – writing out the man's last will and testament – halting only for brief moments in order for him to catch his breath and then to begin again. He had been a man on a mission – squeezing his sister's hand – determined to leave her cared for.

When that task was completed – Treville had left them alone to say goodbye – saddened and troubled; and in his hand a sealed letter with Porthos' name as its address.

Athos had been surprised when Treville had left the death bed; walked to Porthos' side and handed the letter off to him. Porthos had looked confused and unsure – ready to hand it back. But Treville had pressed it harder in his hand and left to grieve his friend alone.

He had wondered then. What was the connection between Porthos and de Foix? What was in the letter?

But he dismissed it from his mind when he caught sight of Lucie through the door way; weeping and holding her brother tight – asking him not to leave her.

d'Artagnan had then jumped to his feet; entered the room; and joined her side – gripping her shoulders in sympathy.

So the night had been long, and now they all sat here together in the heat, contemplating the future.

Athos stepped away from his brothers and retrieved his hat – placing it carefully on his head. "Who will protect France now", he wondered aloud as he walked toward the gate and out into the Paris streets; hoping to get a moment to reflect over the past several days on his own.

It was noon – perhaps a drink was in order.

* * *

d'Artagnan stared after Athos over his meal; and thought to follow him. He wanted to talk to Athos and thank him for putting his trust in him; for giving him the independence he so desperately wanted and to let him know that he understood now. He had felt stifled; suffocated almost by his overprotectiveness – but now understood the sentiment behind it.

In that prison, when he thought his friends were dead; no, when he thought Athos was dead – he had not felt so alone and so afraid since his father's death. That same overwhelming feeling of loss and abandonment had seized him – and almost caused him to be swept away by it. The only thing that kept him going was the need to have the man think well of him. If he failed in his duty – Athos' disappointment would haunt him the rest of his life and then follow him to his grave.

He did not want to feel that sense of loss again. He got it now; and he wanted to let Athos know.

But just as he was about to stand and follow, there was Lucie walking toward them – her face still streaked with dried tears. He reached out his hand to her; she took it; squeezed tight and sat down beside him – trembling still with sorrow.

He wasn't sure what to do. He knew how death affected him; a strong, powerful pain that only abated with release of rage and with motion – but providing comfort to others was awkward for him. He looked to Aramis and Porthos, who stood then – sensing Lucie, had come to seek out d'Artagnan; and they would just be in the way.

Aramis reached for her hand and kissed it, "My deepest sympathies Mistress de Foix." Porthos bowed his head with respect; and spoke softly, "I'm sorry for your loss." Lucie acknowledged them with a slight quivering smile and lowered her gaze. Her pain was deep. Her brother was dead.

Porthos and Aramis left the table, leaving Lucie and d'Artagnan to look at each other with sad eyes and inexperience. He - not knowing how to help; and she not knowing how to express her anguish.

They sat quiet side by side for some moments until d'Artagnan broke the silence, "What will you do?"

Lucie clasped her hands together tightly and spoke in a quivering voice, "Captain Treville has offered to have my brother buried here among the musketeers who have died in the service of France."

d'Artagnan nodded in agreement, "Captain Treville is a good man. Your brother was very brave; a hero to France. There is no finer or more fitting a place to rest."

Lucie released her hands and reached to take hold of d'Artagnan's elbow and held tight. Holding onto him, seemed to give her the strength to speak of her brother. "Afterward, he will help me reunite with my widowed cousin. She is my only family now." A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye and she released d'Artagnan to swipe it away, "My brother has left me with half of all he owned. It should be enough, for a time, to get me settled with her." She clasped her hands again and closed her eyes, "We will be two women alone in the world now; the last of the de Foixs."

d'Artagnan smiled, "I'm glad that you have family – somewhere to go – where you will be safe."

Lucie considered the young man seated beside her; she had a plan so just plunged ahead, "What of you d'Artagnan – where is your family?"

d'Artagnan looked around the garrison yard; then over to his brothers sitting in the shade of the stables, "This is my family. Athos, Aramis, and Porthos are my brothers. When my father was killed, they took me in and added me to their number."

Lucie surveyed the dusty garrison yard; the shooting range; and the nearby stables, "I see", she sighed and charged ahead. "And love. Is there someone you love?"

d'Artagnan was stunned into silence. He wasn't sure what Lucie was asking. Her expression was earnest and expectant; he knew in that moment – he must be careful how he answered. She seemed to be depending on him for something. He thought hard and could not deny that he felt something for her. There had been a connection right away – but he knew that connection wasn't love. He loved Constance.

Lucie continued, buoyed by d'Artagnan's silence – hoping against hope that he would take her up on her offer, "You are a good man d'Artagnan; and I am alone in the world now. My brother was my sole provider. Without his protection – I fear for my future."

d'Artagnan thought then on what Constance had tried to tell him only days before of what it was to be a woman in a man's world.

Lucie persisted, renewing her proposal with vigor – her voice growing in confidence, "Since I am now alone, I must be bold. You have been kind to me and saved my life. I know you have some feeling for me. Will you save me again? Will you have me as your wife? "

d'Artagnan was taken aback, but now understood the depths of Constance's argument. She had been right. He had not really thought of what he was asking from her. He could see now, that a woman alone, without the protection of a man – was vulnerable to the harshest of what life had to offer. He could see it here, in Lucie's desperation.

He took a deep breath and held her by the shoulders, hoping to convey friendship and nothing more, "You asked me Lucie – if there was someone I loved; and the answer to that is yes. There is Constance, and I love her deeply. I hope one day to spend my life with her – if she will look past my faults and have me."

Lucie slumped in his embrace feeling sad, and defeated – unwilling to plead any more than she already had, "There is no doubt d'Artagnan, Constance will have you." She looked out over the garrison yard; and squeezed his hand pressing her shoulder in comfort, and then gazed directly into his eyes – hers beginning to fill with tears, "I think I will go and sit with my brother a little while longer", she said. "Saying goodbye last night was hard with everyone around."

d'Artagnan stood and nodded his understanding, "Would you like for me to walk with you?"

She bowed her head in assent, and they walked hand in hand across the yard – to the infirmary, for Lucie to gather herself and say goodbye.

* * *

Porthos and Aramis watched from a short distance away – seated in the shade of the stable awning – as d'Artagnan and Lucie walked hand in hand toward the infirmary.

His mind falling briefly on his own predicament; Adele's passion; Isabelle's steady courage; and the Queens's calm nature all flashing before him – he could not help but to comment on d'Artagnan's nature, "He is a fine young man, d'Artagnan; Lucie is in good hands."

Porthos nodded in agreement; distracted somewhat by the letter tucked in his vest. He touched it lightly, where it lay near his heart. He was confused by it. He did not know the General beyond this mission, yet the man had left him a note, which he could not bring himself to read.

This was a puzzle to him; and the look on Treville's face as he handed it over to him was one he did not recognize. He knew Treville to be a good; honest; and loyal man – who shook his hand one day and welcomed him home.

The man had nurtured him from day one; championed his dream to become a musketeer; and helped to make it come true. He would do anything for the Captain. But there was something in that look last night that made him think the Captain held something back from him.

He touched his vest again where the letter lay and warred with himself whether to open it now or wait first to speak with Treville.

Surfacing from his own musings, Aramis regarded Porthos with concern. The look on his face told him something was on his friend's mind, "What is it you have their Porthos that distresses you so?"

Yes, Porthos thought; Aramis understood – distress was what he felt. He reached inside his vest and held the letter out before him – decision made. With Aramis here, they could sort this out together.

"The Captain gave me this last night. It's from de Foix."

Aramis raised an eyebrow – this was curious indeed – a letter from the General, "What does it say?"

Porthos paused a moment; broke the seal and unfolded the letter. He read the words with concentration. The contents were short and brief; thanking him for saving his life; leaving him a sizable sum from his estate; and asking if possible that he keep in touch with Lucie from time to time.

He handed the letter over to Aramis to read – watching his expression carefully, "Did you get such a letter?"

Aramis shook his head – no – and returned the note to Porthos' outstretched hand. No he had not gotten such a letter, but had noticed that de Foix had taken a quick liking to Porthos – almost as if he knew him. He remembered how last night before he died; he had called Porthos into the room, to speak with him, and asked, "Did he say anything to you last night?"

"No – he just thanked me for saving his life; like the letter says. He shook my hand – but he said nothing about an inheritance."

Aramis smiled openly, "This is quite the mystery my friend – but one you deserve."

Porthos refolded his letter; and placed it safely back in his vest – determined to get a word with Treville when time permitted.

* * *

When they entered the Wren from the heat of the street – the brightness of the day quickly dimmed and the relative coolness of the room was a welcome relief.

There, to the back, in his usual space – sat Athos twirling his cup along the surface of the table.

The three moved toward him as one – studying their friend closely – attempting to gauge his affect. When they reached his side – Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and noticed that his cup was full and as he picked up the wine bottle, which sat in the middle of the table; felt its substantial weight and smiled mischievously.

Before Aramis could comment; Athos responded to the unspoken question, "I am thinking."

Porthos pulled a chair close and sat across from his friend and countered, "As are we all."

d'Artagnan sat also; placed his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands – yes, he thought to himself – there is much to think about.

Aramis sat then too, staring about the room and noticing only now, how quiet it was here in the afternoon. They and only a few other patrons were scattered among the tables, or seated at the bar – nursing drinks and finding solitude from the worries of the day.

The four of them sat like this for some moments – content to just be among themselves.

d'Artagnan's mind fell on Lucie and Constance. How brave, strong and courageous they both were. He had learned much from them – and loved Constance the more for it. He would make it up to her – he understood better now – to have called her a coward was indefensible. He hoped she would forgive him.

d'Artagnan looked over at Athos and was determined to set things straight with him also. He would not let the day pass without mending this fence.

Aramis' mind fell on his treasonous secret – the only three women he had truly loved in his life; two of whom were now dead – and his son.

He sighed deeply – his beautiful boy – who he could not be a father to.

Aramis pursed his lips, if he did not get up from this seat – he would go mad. So he rose abruptly and stood before his brothers, "I believe I shall go for a walk; clear my head of recent events; and find somewhere to release my energy." His announcement coming as no surprise – Athos and Porthos looked to him and nodded – knowing his moods and when to let him be.

"We will see you back at the garrison", Porthos acknowledged, grabbing his arm and imparting a message of support. Aramis squeezed his hand, "Do not worry. I'll see you soon." And he left the Wren; his heart aching – determined to relieve his pain, if only for a few hours. Perhaps he would go seek comfort from the lovely Marguerite.

Porthos let his good friend go, and felt the weight of this letter in his vest. Why did this gift of kindness from a brave man, to be sure, feel so heavy?

Something niggled at the back of his brain – Treville's buckling knees when Rochefort reported de Foix alive; de Foix's surprise at meeting him in Spain; and this gift from a man he did not know. This was all adding up to something; but to what he could not fathom.

Porthos frowned, and slapped the top of the table. Right now, he just needed to keep busy; to settle his brain; to stop thinking so hard.

"I think I will scrounge up a few good men here and get a game going." Porthos stood to his feet and scanned the room, then looked back to his companions. "Join me?" Before they could say yeah or nay, Porthos lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat, "I know, you two are thinking", and left the table to search out his marks.

As Porthos left them, d'Artagnan sat up straighter in his chair and faced his mentor. Now was his chance, "I wish to say something" – they both said in unison. d'Artagnan and Athos stared quizzically at each other – "You first" – they said again in concert; causing them both to chuckle uncomfortably.

Athos then inclined his head in d'Artagnan's direction and waited.

d'Artagnan leaned forward, placed his palms flat on the table and pressed down hard, "I just wanted to apologize." Once said, he let out a breath and looked up earnestly, "I understand now – why you held me so close. When I thought you were dead, I could not breathe. It was my father in the rain all over again. So you see, I get it now; and you will hear no more protests from me. "

Athos bowed his head and thought hard on this. d'Artagnan had a good soul and a warm heart. It worried him how strong their connection was. What if one day – he looked straight through his defenses and saw the true man beneath, with all his many failings; sins and mistakes in judgment – what would he think then?

When he looked up and caught d'Artagnan's eye – what he saw there made him catch his breath; and remind him of what he also wanted to say. He could still see d'Artagnan riding away from him; over the rise – eager to make his mark; determined to prove his worth. He remembered how his heart had clenched; and how he should have said more – to let him know how proud he was.

He would say it here now. This was his chance. One day, he would send d'Artagnan over the rise and perhaps never see him again – and would regret never having said things that needed saying.

Soon the Wren would fill up with the evening crowd and then descend into the controlled chaos of Paris life after dark.

He smiled slightly at d'Artagnan – pushed an empty cup in his direction and poured him some wine.

He leaned across the table and began, d'Artagnan pressing close – rapt with attention.

When Porthos looked back and saw his friends huddled close – he was glad. Those two needed to talk. He would join them later and they would go find Aramis, to end the night together.

Porthos turned back and faced the unknown men around his table; laughed heartily and clapped his hands together like thunder – rubbing them briskly as if gathering warmth, "Shall we begin gentlemen!" he roared.

* * *

The End.

Thank you all so much for reading In the Pursuit of. Please leave a review to let me know what you think! I hope you enjoyed these chapters. As always, thank you to everyone who has already reviewed; your comments and ideas mean a great deal. And to those of you who have followed and favorited – thank you. Special shout outs to MargaretThornton – I hope you enjoyed the Lucie/d'Artagnan talk; to Coffeecup35 – I hope you enjoyed the Porthos moment; and to my guest Sarah – thanks for your continued support.


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